sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:46 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:46 am
Entry tags:
The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Sixteen
Title: The Hiatus Continuations, Chapter Sixteen: Awakening
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: Jack and Claire talk about small towns, Bennet loses his daughter again, Peter plays in traffic, Hiro has exquisite timing, Mohinder sees through new eyes, and Sylar snaps.
Notes: Thanks to Heidi for leet betaz! Thanks and credit to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
utility_knife for Isaac's gorgeous drawing of Mohinder; if you'd like to comment on the art, utility.knife@gmail.com is the address to write to.
Originally posted 4.15.07
JACK BAKER AND CLAIRE BENNET - NEW YORK CITY MAY NOT SURVIVE
"So," Jack said, flopping on the sofa. "I weaseled the Versa away from Ando, we can go anywhere in the city. And I always know where a parking space is."
Claire grinned.
"Now all I need to know," he continued, "is how we sneak out of here."
"Well, last time I went out the window," Claire said. Jack looked over at the window, several floors above ground.
"I'm not really sure that's a viable solution for me," he said.
"Okay, so you go out the door and get the car ready, and I'll go out the window. It only takes a minute or two."
"There's got to be an easier way."
"It's fine. As long as I don't land on my head."
Jack frowned. "I don't like...have to watch, do I?"
"God, you're a wimp."
"All right. I go. When you hear the car horn, jump out the window. Feet first," he added.
He didn't watch, but he heard the crunch when she hit the ground. This was going to take some getting used to.
"Okay," she said, getting into the Versa. "Just have to relocate my wrist..."
"Ew noooo..." Jack turned up the radio to drown out the sound of her bones relocating. "Okay. So. You want to go see a movie? We're in Greenwich Village, there's probably some killer stores around."
"I don't have any money -- well, I've got ten bucks," she said.
"Not a problem," Jack replied, holding up a plastic bag. Several wads of scuzzy-looking bills were inside. "It's not the cleanest in the world, but it'll spend well."
"I want to see New York," she said.
"Statue of Liberty? Empire State Building? Your driver awaits."
"Breathe," she said, smiling. "You're pretty enthusiastic."
"I grew up in a small town. Hey, you want to see the Natural History Museum? Metropolitan Museum of Art?"
"God, it's like a school field trip."
Jack laughed. "Okay, no museums. You want to go watch people deal drugs in Central Park?"
"Let's go to Times Square."
"Yeah?" Jack nodded. "Off we go. Hold on tight, I make sudden stops and turns."
"Odessa was pretty small too," Claire said. "Not like, freakishly small."
"Yeah, Ojai was okay. But you know. Not New York."
"No. Definitely not New York," she said, looking out the window. "Do you miss it?"
"Nah. Ojai isn't going anywhere, anyway. It'll be there when I'm done."
"But..." she frowned. "Don't you miss your friends? Your parents?"
"I dunno, I didn't think much about it. Do you?"
"Yeah. Sometimes a lot. I mean I didn't -- well, I didn't have very many real friends," she said. "But I miss them. And my parents."
"I guess it's different when you know you can't just get on a plane and go home."
"Sorry, I'm totally ruining our jailbreak."
"No, it's cool," Jack said. "Like...I don't want to sound all guidance counselor or anything, but you're here now, you know? Life's amazing. You can't really say when anything is gonna happen. So you might as well have a good time."
She grinned. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. "You totally sound like a guidance counselor."
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - THE WAREHOUSE
***
SYLAR - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Sylar could feel his head aching and wanted cleaner air than Peter Petrelli's stuffy little apartment; if he could just get his mind clear he was sure he could master Isaac's power. If he could get the scent of burning out of his nostrils, if he could just stop his skin from prickling with heat, he could master this new power before it mastered him.
He was all right until he hit street level and took off his coat, letting the cold air wash over his skin. People stared at him as he passed, underdressed for the freezing weather following the rain that had fallen on New York that morning. He didn't hear their thoughts but he felt their emotions, a jumble of confusion and hatred, a dismissal that Sylar had not seen since his father died. Nothing special; just another downtown Crazy.
He tried to get away from them but every time he left one behind, another seemed to appear. He zigzagged through the streets, walking for hours, blindly wandering nearer and nearer to the heart of Manhattan. God, if only the burning smell would go away.
A man walked into him, bumped his shoulder, and he staggered.
"Fucking junkie," the man muttered. Sylar listened hard and heard the man's heart ticking. He tried to reach out and stop it, but instead he stretched out one hand and it burned.
He turned it over, amazed. His bones glowed white inside his skin. Nobody else was paying attention to him in the slightest. That was New York for you, Chandra would have said.
He stumbled off the curb and nearly got run over by a car. He tried to stop it and his other hand began to glow.
Oh god. Oh sweet god, forgive this sinner, forgive me father I have sinned I have killed the wrong man...
He knew now. He had killed someone waiting for Isaac, not Isaac himself. Someone with so much power it overflowed his body, loosened the bolts that kept a person's sanity in. A man who could burn the very atoms of the world.
He looked up and saw across the street a name that he tasted on his tongue like acid.
Petrelli for Congress.
Sylar stumbled another few feet, halted himself before being hit by a car, and began to scream.
***
SIMON PORTER - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Simon was bored. It was his first time off in ages; he'd been concentrating so hard on the work he felt like he could sleep for a week. He had slept a lot of yesterday. Good thing too, or he might be near collapse. That'd be amusing, at least.
He rambled down to Midtown, where he rarely ventured -- too many people, really. He knew the whole city, of course, he'd made a point to learn it when he moved here, but he was pleased nonetheless that he could still navigate with no problem, and that some of his favorite places to eat were still here.
He ought to find some kind of useful occupation. He did know people in the city, at least; perhaps he could drop in on --
"Petrelli," he muttered, without knowing why. He looked around, cautiously.
His confusion was drowned out when he heard another sound, though -- the sound of screaming. Most New Yorkers were used to the panhandlers and prophets who spent the day wandering the streets, but not many of them screamed like that.
Down the block, right near the Petrelli for Congress banner. Across the street -- no, halfway across, in the middle of traffic -- a man clutched at his head and screamed.
Simon Porter took off running.
***
MATT, BENNET, JACK, AND CLAIRE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"Do you think it's safe to leave Isaac alone?" Matt asked, following Bennet through the city like a puppy. "Where the hell are we going, anyway?"
"He's painting. When he comes down he'll sleep it off. We have at least two hours," Bennet answered. "We're going to meet a flying man."
"What the hell's a flying man?"
"A man. Who can fly. Not one of my more successful attempts at recruitment," Bennet said tightly. He pointed to the banner nearby. Petrelli for Congress.
"He works for a politician?" Matt asked.
"He is the politician."
"And you couldn't just phone him?"
"He doesn't like me," Bennet said. "Not that I blame him. But I think he might be more amenable to a second discussion if I have someone along who can verify my story." He gave Matt a mirthless smile. "Who better than a cop?"
"Yeah, well, I heard the guy's soft on crime."
Bennet wasn't sure how he was going to talk his way into Petrelli's office, but at least he could give him the shock of his life. He was owed for last time, when Nathan Petrelli had kicked him hard enough to make his hand tingle and go numb as he dropped his weapon.
He had gotten into the habit of looking at every blonde girl he passed, every blonde girl of a certain age, a certain height. Sometimes his heart leapt into his throat and he thought, that's her, but it never was. He hadn't realised how many long-haired blonde teenagers there were, until only one of them mattered.
Even as his mind told him it was another trick, his eyes lighted on a pair of fair heads, bent together over a tourism book. He couldn't see the girl's face, but her hair -- and the way she wore her clothing, one hip cocked, feet planted firmly on the ground (cheerleading stance)...
"Claire?" he said, stopping abruptly.
"What?" Matt asked. "Hey, look out, some dude's about to get mown down over there."
"CLAIRE!" Bennet shouted, and the girl raised her head, looking around. Oh god. It was Claire. "CLAIRE!"
He saw her, through traffic, mouth the word Dad? in disbelief just as a truck came past, blaring its horn.
And then he heard the screaming.
Matt disappeared from his side, running towards some crazy man screaming somewhere down the street. Bennet moved uneasily along the edge of the curb, trying to find a gap through which he could get across. His daughter was four lanes away from him, less than thirty feet, but even as she stared wide-eyed at him the young man with her took her wrist and pulled her away.
He screamed her name again, but the other man's screaming drowned him out. There was a strange hiccup in reality, as if time had momentarily skipped a beat, and then Claire was gone.
Bennet stood frozen to the spot, chest heaving, scanning for his daughter. Neither she nor the boy with her were anywhere to be seen.
The boy.
Jack Baker.
***
THE PETRELLI BROTHERS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"I appreciate you being here today, Pete," Nathan said, clapping Peter on the back. Peter, hands shoved in his pockets, staring out the window, frowned. "Something wrong?"
"No, just -- I feel restless. Guess it's all that election day energy finally wearing off." Peter said, his tone making it clear he thought election day energy was something of a joke. Nathan let it pass, probably because Peter'd been right there shouting with the rest of them last night. "I think I'll get some fresh air."
"Not a bad idea. I've got meetings up to here, but I think I have five minutes now."
Peter shook his head. "Don't feel like you have to."
"I want to. Besides, I need to talk to you."
Peter felt himself being navigated through the doors and out onto the sidewalk, Nathan's hand on his elbow. They stepped out of the way, down near the street where an ornamental tree in a little planter box was pretty well on its way to being kindling.
"Listen, Pete," Nathan said, though Peter felt his restlessness increasing. He wanted to be anywhere else right now but listening to Nathan talk about politics. "I've been thinking. That job offer's still good, if you want it. I mean, not volunteer co-ordinator, obviously, but I could still use you as a general manager for the staff. They like you."
"Sure, whatever," Peter said, his heartrate increasing. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Peter looked up when the screaming started; it slid through his brain like a knife. He saw, in the middle of the street, a man grabbing his head, ripping a baseball cap off, clutching at the short bristling strands of hair on his scalp.
"Sylar," he said.
"What?" Nathan asked. "Jeez, somebody put that guy out of his misery -- "
"It's Sylar," Peter said. He saw it all at once, clearly; he saw Sylar standing in traffic, even saw himself on the curb with white eyes, Nathan staring at him with fear clearly written on his face. "It's Sylar, and he's going to destroy New York."
He moved to go to him but Nathan caught him around the waist.
"You can't walk out into traffic!" he said into Peter's ear. "Peter, stop struggling!"
"I took his power," Sylar moaned, though Peter was almost certain it was in his head alone that he heard it. "I took his power and I can't control it!"
"Wait! Let me go!" Peter shouted. "I can help him! SYLAR! I CAN -- "
The rest of his scream was drowned out by a truck blowing its horn as it passed. He looked to his left, on instinct, and saw Claire there too, his own blood Claire. Daughter of my brother --
To his right, Claude was standing, a few feet away, uncertain what to do. Behind him, Hiro and Ando were emerging from the office; next to them a blonde woman had been about to enter, until she saw Nathan on the curb.
"Nathan, I can help him! He's going to blow if we don't stop him! Claude, HELP ME!"
"Let him go," Claude said.
Peter broke free from Nathan's grasp and plunged headlong into traffic, purpose clear. He saw Jack take Claire's wrist and begin to run in the opposite direction; Ando and Hiro got as far as the curb before the roaring cars stopped them. Another man -- the cop from Texas, Parkman -- was running towards Sylar too, barrelling down the median. Peter had time to register a ghostly afterimage of a badge on his chest before Sylar screamed, not just rage but pain and fear, too. Like an animal, tormented by something it didn't understand.
Parkman was too far away, and everyone was too close; no chance of surviving the blast.
There was a moment when time stopped, and he knew it was Hiro's doing; without that he would have run right in front of an oncoming minivan which would have flattened him, but as it was he whipped past it without slowing his pace.
He had no idea what he was going to do until he did it. Even as he approached he saw that Hiro's time-freeze hadn't affected Sylar in the slightest. There was fire in the other man's eyes and the white-red glow of his hands was almost blinding.
Most of Peter's mind panicked, even as some part breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't his fault.
But it would be, if he didn't do something now. If you have the power to end something and you don't, you become part of the problem.
Peter threw himself into Sylar with all his weight, skidding them off-balance and wrapping both arms around the screaming man. His clothes burned on contact and the reek of singed flesh filled the air. Sylar didn't even seem to need to stop for breath. He just screamed and screamed.
Time sped back up and a car roared past.
Peter thought of safety, of a wide expanse of emptiness where they could disappear to, of the way he'd always thought the desert looked. Above Sylar's screams he heard a kind of dominant silence, a missing top note, but before he could discover what was wrong, it happened.
He had been shown a film once, in high-school history class, about how nobody could know what it was like to be at the epicenter of an atomic blast. All he remembered from it was that you went blind just by looking at it.
As the blast passed through skin, muscle, organ, and bone, Peter felt Sylar's body shuddering in his arms. Their foreheads were pressed together, breath mingling, when the screaming finally stopped.
Fire danced between them and then Peter was part of the fire too, his body intertwined with the body of Gabriel Grey. One body, one life, one column of fire all there was -- the powerful manifestation of such a small part of the universe, just an atom, showing its force. For a moment he felt his body coming apart at the place where each cell joined the next, and in the glorious explosion he danced as part of the world, indistinguishable and inextricable.
***
MOHINDER SURESH - NYC
He sleeps.
Or does he? Does he dream?
Is it sleep if you never wake, or is it only breathing death? Is it death if the heart still beats?
And does he dream?
Shanti is there with him in his half-life, still a child of five, not a sister except in blood. But Shanti loves her brother and wants to help him; she touches his forehead -- the centre, the seat of the third eye, pineal gland, trepannage site. Then, as he watches, she touches his left eye, the lid protectively flicking down at the last minute. Her chubby child finger on his eyelid is cool and soft, lingering only for a moment.
When she takes her hand away, pain spikes through his brain, and he screams.
Mr. Smith woke screaming, his heart monitor going haywire as his pulse spiked, EEG rattling unsettlingly as he jerked from a comatose state into waking.
His eyes rolled wildly as he tried to sort out where he was and how he'd come to be there, and when the nurse tried to stop him from moving he grasped her hand on his chest and stammered in fear. The syllables made no sense to her and she wondered if he'd suffered neurological damage, but then she realised he thought he was making sense -- he was speaking in another language, and expecting her to answer.
"Sir," she said, "I don't understand. Do you speak any English?"
He stiffened in shock, but his next words were in English, in what the nurse considered a swoonworthy accent.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"You're at Grace Hospital in New York," she said. "Please, sir, try to relax."
"What am I doing in New York?" he demanded. "Is my father here?"
"You haven't had any visitors, Mr. Smith."
"Smith! My name is Suresh! Mohinder Suresh!"
"If you don't calm down we'll have to sedate you, Mr. Smith."
"No, honestly," he insisted. "My name is Suresh."
"I'm sure we can straighten that out soon, sir. Do you remember what happened to you?"
"No..." he trailed off, leaning back on the hospital pillow. "I don't even know how I got to New York."
"A little amnesia isn't unusual," she said, trying to reassure him. "Do you know the date?"
"It's..." his brow furrowed. "August. Isn't it? Have I been unconscious long?"
"No, only a few days," she said. "But it's November now."
"I see," he said, frowning. "May I ask another question?"
"I'll try to help you if I can, sir."
"Can you tell me why I can't see anything?"
***
JACK BAKER AND CLAIRE BENNET - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"Jack, stop!" Claire called, pulled along behind him as he bolted away. "It won't matter!" she added. "If the explosion goes -- "
Jack didn't respond; instead he tugged her around by the arm and pushed her into a stairwell.
"Bomb shelter," he said, yanking open the door at the bottom and bolting through. Inside the basement was another door, round and thick like a bank vault. Jack pulled it shut behind them.
"We'll be safe here," he said in the darkness, catching his breath.
"But if -- "
"Don't think about it," he replied fiercely. "We'll hear it if it happens -- until then, try not to think."
"Jack, I'm scared."
"Me too."
"Where are you?"
"Stay still," he said. "I'll find you."
She giggled hysterically -- of course he would find her, that was what Jack did -- and after a second she felt his hand in hers. She turned slightly, wanting to face him, and felt his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. She pressed her face against his shoulder, trying not to think.
"It'll be fine," he said. "Couple of hours from now we'll laugh about this."
"You don't know that."
"It's pretty funny."
"What if Peter -- "
"I didn't come here from Ojai to get blown up," Jack said. "And I don't think all the crazy shit going down in this city was meant to end this way."
"But the paintings..."
"Shh." Jack's hands touched her face -- weird, kind of scary, especially in the dark. She raised her chin and felt his lips touch hers.
"Don't think," he said, and she tried not to, because it was so overwhelming. Fear and worry, adrenaline, rising grief --
Jack walked her backwards and she went trustingly, knowing he could find his way in the dark. She felt a cool, dry wall against her back even as Jack deepened the kiss.
It was sort of working, really -- the only thought in her mind was that she was french-kissing a cute boy in a bomb shelter, waiting for the world to end.
He pulled back slightly, breathing hard.
"Sorry," he said. "I lied about that whole not-being-a-date thing, I guess."
"It's okay," she replied. "I -- "
She felt his body tense and broke off suddenly.
"What is it?" she asked, her hands still resting on his shoulders.
"Vision," he rasped. "Jesus -- I can see -- hold still."
"What do you see?"
"Peter."
Claire held as still as possible. She hardly breathed. She wished she could at least see his face.
"He's not here," Jack said finally. "Not in New York. Hot -- the sky is burning where he is. But..."
Claire tightened her grip.
"We're safe," Jack said. "And he's alive, somewhere. Come on."
They emerged, blinking, into the glary sunlight outside and climbed the stairs together. At the top, Jack lifted his head and listened to some instinct only he could sense.
"Let's find your dad," he said. "He might know what happened."
***
NATHAN, CLAUDE, JACK, AND CLAIRE - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Nathan was still standing, staring disbelievingly at the empty spot where his brother had been, when someone grabbed him roughly and shook him.
"Snap out of it," said a voice, and Nathan looked around to see the invisible man from his car, days ago, holding tightly to his arm. "Come on."
"What -- " Nathan pointed to where Peter had been.
"He's your brother, he's taken Sylar away, and we need to find him. Get inside," the man urged. Claude, that was his name.
"What's inside?" Nathan asked stupidly, as he was dragged back into his own campaign headquarters.
"Television," Claude replied grimly. "The internet. The fastest way to find out where a nuclear explosion has gone off."
"A nuclear -- oh, Jesus," Nathan said. "Peter."
"Wasn't him. He's been empathising all these weeks, the little idiot," Claude said, picking up a remote control and twiddling the buttons madly.
"But he -- the other man -- "
"Here, you do this," Claude said, throwing the remote at him and running to one of the computers. Nathan flicked through the channels to CNN, watching Claude type madly.
"He took Sylar somewhere. Hopefully somewhere safe," Claude said as he worked. "He may be dead. They may both be dead. They may both be alive."
"Nobody is going to survive that kind of -- "
"Nobody can bloody well fly, either. Shut your mouth and keep looking."
Nathan tried MSNBC. He even, out of desperation, tried FOX news, where people were already saying he was going to make an awful congressman.
A door slammed somewhere in the building and Nathan turned.
"Dad," Claire said, running forward. Jack was behind her, and Nathan was officially going to kill Jack. He caught her in his arms and let her bury her face in his shirt.
"Claire, what the hell are you doing out -- "
"Sorry, it's my fault," Jack said, coming forward also. "I snuck her out. I was just gonna buy her a Superman shirt..."
"And then New York nearly blew up," Nathan snarled. "That tell you how wise a decision that was?"
"AHA!" Claude shouted, and all three of them turned to look at him. "Got it."
"What?" Nathan asked, releasing Claire so that he could get a better look.
"Good boy. Good boy," Claude said approvingly.
"What am I looking at?" Nathan asked.
"The United States, ya twat."
"I know that."
"National Weather Service," Claude continued. "Satellite imaging updated every ten minutes. There we are..." He pointed to an odd, lumpy-looking shape in the southwest. "That's an atomic blast, that is."
Nathan swallowed. "But you don't know...if Peter's alive."
"I do," Jack said. Nathan turned to glare at him. "What? I do. When we were uh..."
"...hiding," Claire said. "Jack had a vision. He said Peter's safe. Somewhere the sky is burning."
"Right," Claude said. "For a given value of safe. I'll fetch him."
Nathan grabbed his arm. "I'm coming with you."
"Doesn't work that way. I'm taking the fast route," Claude said. "Can't drag you along and drag you and Peter back with me."
"I've clocked my airspeed," Nathan retorted. "I can be there in minutes."
Claude looked speculatively from Nathan to Claire, which Nathan did not think was a good sign.
"You," he said to Jack. "Mind the shop. And you, Petrelli, grab a map and fly your arse to Socorro."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm taking the indestructible one with me," Claude replied. "Fancy a trip, Claire?"
"It's okay," Claire told him, when he tried to shove Claude back. "He's a friend of my father's."
Claude wrapped his arms around Nathan's daughter from behind and both of them disappeared. There was a faint pop as air rushed in to fill the space they'd been.
"I'm not done with you," Nathan said to Jack, then ran for the stairs. If he was going to take off flying in the middle of New York City, at least he could do it from the rooftop.
***
Next time, on Heroes ("The Long Walk"):
"A blast of this size, while causing damage only to the extent of three or four miles, would fill an area comparable to metropolitan New York with toxic radiation."
He heard the man hesitate, then speak once more. "Simon Porter."
"I do wish you'd at least talk to me. I know you're listening. You can stay invisible if you wish."
"So it's you," Claude said cryptically. "Well, isn't it a small world."
"I'm a bit of a scientist, me." "I'm a geneticist. What's your branch?" "Esoterica."
Even Peter's great teacher Claude, Nathan noticed, couldn't keep the uncertainty out of his voice.
It had been way more than nice. It had been hot, and there had been tongues involved, and not just his tongue either.
Chapter Seventeen
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Summary: Jack and Claire talk about small towns, Bennet loses his daughter again, Peter plays in traffic, Hiro has exquisite timing, Mohinder sees through new eyes, and Sylar snaps.
Notes: Thanks to Heidi for leet betaz! Thanks and credit to
utility_knife for Isaac's gorgeous drawing of Mohinder; if you'd like to comment on the art, utility.knife@gmail.com is the address to write to. Originally posted 4.15.07
JACK BAKER AND CLAIRE BENNET - NEW YORK CITY MAY NOT SURVIVE
"So," Jack said, flopping on the sofa. "I weaseled the Versa away from Ando, we can go anywhere in the city. And I always know where a parking space is."
Claire grinned.
"Now all I need to know," he continued, "is how we sneak out of here."
"Well, last time I went out the window," Claire said. Jack looked over at the window, several floors above ground.
"I'm not really sure that's a viable solution for me," he said.
"Okay, so you go out the door and get the car ready, and I'll go out the window. It only takes a minute or two."
"There's got to be an easier way."
"It's fine. As long as I don't land on my head."
Jack frowned. "I don't like...have to watch, do I?"
"God, you're a wimp."
"All right. I go. When you hear the car horn, jump out the window. Feet first," he added.
He didn't watch, but he heard the crunch when she hit the ground. This was going to take some getting used to.
"Okay," she said, getting into the Versa. "Just have to relocate my wrist..."
"Ew noooo..." Jack turned up the radio to drown out the sound of her bones relocating. "Okay. So. You want to go see a movie? We're in Greenwich Village, there's probably some killer stores around."
"I don't have any money -- well, I've got ten bucks," she said.
"Not a problem," Jack replied, holding up a plastic bag. Several wads of scuzzy-looking bills were inside. "It's not the cleanest in the world, but it'll spend well."
"I want to see New York," she said.
"Statue of Liberty? Empire State Building? Your driver awaits."
"Breathe," she said, smiling. "You're pretty enthusiastic."
"I grew up in a small town. Hey, you want to see the Natural History Museum? Metropolitan Museum of Art?"
"God, it's like a school field trip."
Jack laughed. "Okay, no museums. You want to go watch people deal drugs in Central Park?"
"Let's go to Times Square."
"Yeah?" Jack nodded. "Off we go. Hold on tight, I make sudden stops and turns."
"Odessa was pretty small too," Claire said. "Not like, freakishly small."
"Yeah, Ojai was okay. But you know. Not New York."
"No. Definitely not New York," she said, looking out the window. "Do you miss it?"
"Nah. Ojai isn't going anywhere, anyway. It'll be there when I'm done."
"But..." she frowned. "Don't you miss your friends? Your parents?"
"I dunno, I didn't think much about it. Do you?"
"Yeah. Sometimes a lot. I mean I didn't -- well, I didn't have very many real friends," she said. "But I miss them. And my parents."
"I guess it's different when you know you can't just get on a plane and go home."
"Sorry, I'm totally ruining our jailbreak."
"No, it's cool," Jack said. "Like...I don't want to sound all guidance counselor or anything, but you're here now, you know? Life's amazing. You can't really say when anything is gonna happen. So you might as well have a good time."
She grinned. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. "You totally sound like a guidance counselor."
***
ISAAC MENDEZ - THE WAREHOUSE
***
SYLAR - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Sylar could feel his head aching and wanted cleaner air than Peter Petrelli's stuffy little apartment; if he could just get his mind clear he was sure he could master Isaac's power. If he could get the scent of burning out of his nostrils, if he could just stop his skin from prickling with heat, he could master this new power before it mastered him.
He was all right until he hit street level and took off his coat, letting the cold air wash over his skin. People stared at him as he passed, underdressed for the freezing weather following the rain that had fallen on New York that morning. He didn't hear their thoughts but he felt their emotions, a jumble of confusion and hatred, a dismissal that Sylar had not seen since his father died. Nothing special; just another downtown Crazy.
He tried to get away from them but every time he left one behind, another seemed to appear. He zigzagged through the streets, walking for hours, blindly wandering nearer and nearer to the heart of Manhattan. God, if only the burning smell would go away.
A man walked into him, bumped his shoulder, and he staggered.
"Fucking junkie," the man muttered. Sylar listened hard and heard the man's heart ticking. He tried to reach out and stop it, but instead he stretched out one hand and it burned.
He turned it over, amazed. His bones glowed white inside his skin. Nobody else was paying attention to him in the slightest. That was New York for you, Chandra would have said.
He stumbled off the curb and nearly got run over by a car. He tried to stop it and his other hand began to glow.
Oh god. Oh sweet god, forgive this sinner, forgive me father I have sinned I have killed the wrong man...
He knew now. He had killed someone waiting for Isaac, not Isaac himself. Someone with so much power it overflowed his body, loosened the bolts that kept a person's sanity in. A man who could burn the very atoms of the world.
He looked up and saw across the street a name that he tasted on his tongue like acid.
Petrelli for Congress.
Sylar stumbled another few feet, halted himself before being hit by a car, and began to scream.
***
SIMON PORTER - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Simon was bored. It was his first time off in ages; he'd been concentrating so hard on the work he felt like he could sleep for a week. He had slept a lot of yesterday. Good thing too, or he might be near collapse. That'd be amusing, at least.
He rambled down to Midtown, where he rarely ventured -- too many people, really. He knew the whole city, of course, he'd made a point to learn it when he moved here, but he was pleased nonetheless that he could still navigate with no problem, and that some of his favorite places to eat were still here.
He ought to find some kind of useful occupation. He did know people in the city, at least; perhaps he could drop in on --
"Petrelli," he muttered, without knowing why. He looked around, cautiously.
His confusion was drowned out when he heard another sound, though -- the sound of screaming. Most New Yorkers were used to the panhandlers and prophets who spent the day wandering the streets, but not many of them screamed like that.
Down the block, right near the Petrelli for Congress banner. Across the street -- no, halfway across, in the middle of traffic -- a man clutched at his head and screamed.
Simon Porter took off running.
***
MATT, BENNET, JACK, AND CLAIRE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"Do you think it's safe to leave Isaac alone?" Matt asked, following Bennet through the city like a puppy. "Where the hell are we going, anyway?"
"He's painting. When he comes down he'll sleep it off. We have at least two hours," Bennet answered. "We're going to meet a flying man."
"What the hell's a flying man?"
"A man. Who can fly. Not one of my more successful attempts at recruitment," Bennet said tightly. He pointed to the banner nearby. Petrelli for Congress.
"He works for a politician?" Matt asked.
"He is the politician."
"And you couldn't just phone him?"
"He doesn't like me," Bennet said. "Not that I blame him. But I think he might be more amenable to a second discussion if I have someone along who can verify my story." He gave Matt a mirthless smile. "Who better than a cop?"
"Yeah, well, I heard the guy's soft on crime."
Bennet wasn't sure how he was going to talk his way into Petrelli's office, but at least he could give him the shock of his life. He was owed for last time, when Nathan Petrelli had kicked him hard enough to make his hand tingle and go numb as he dropped his weapon.
He had gotten into the habit of looking at every blonde girl he passed, every blonde girl of a certain age, a certain height. Sometimes his heart leapt into his throat and he thought, that's her, but it never was. He hadn't realised how many long-haired blonde teenagers there were, until only one of them mattered.
Even as his mind told him it was another trick, his eyes lighted on a pair of fair heads, bent together over a tourism book. He couldn't see the girl's face, but her hair -- and the way she wore her clothing, one hip cocked, feet planted firmly on the ground (cheerleading stance)...
"Claire?" he said, stopping abruptly.
"What?" Matt asked. "Hey, look out, some dude's about to get mown down over there."
"CLAIRE!" Bennet shouted, and the girl raised her head, looking around. Oh god. It was Claire. "CLAIRE!"
He saw her, through traffic, mouth the word Dad? in disbelief just as a truck came past, blaring its horn.
And then he heard the screaming.
Matt disappeared from his side, running towards some crazy man screaming somewhere down the street. Bennet moved uneasily along the edge of the curb, trying to find a gap through which he could get across. His daughter was four lanes away from him, less than thirty feet, but even as she stared wide-eyed at him the young man with her took her wrist and pulled her away.
He screamed her name again, but the other man's screaming drowned him out. There was a strange hiccup in reality, as if time had momentarily skipped a beat, and then Claire was gone.
Bennet stood frozen to the spot, chest heaving, scanning for his daughter. Neither she nor the boy with her were anywhere to be seen.
The boy.
Jack Baker.
***
THE PETRELLI BROTHERS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"I appreciate you being here today, Pete," Nathan said, clapping Peter on the back. Peter, hands shoved in his pockets, staring out the window, frowned. "Something wrong?"
"No, just -- I feel restless. Guess it's all that election day energy finally wearing off." Peter said, his tone making it clear he thought election day energy was something of a joke. Nathan let it pass, probably because Peter'd been right there shouting with the rest of them last night. "I think I'll get some fresh air."
"Not a bad idea. I've got meetings up to here, but I think I have five minutes now."
Peter shook his head. "Don't feel like you have to."
"I want to. Besides, I need to talk to you."
Peter felt himself being navigated through the doors and out onto the sidewalk, Nathan's hand on his elbow. They stepped out of the way, down near the street where an ornamental tree in a little planter box was pretty well on its way to being kindling.
"Listen, Pete," Nathan said, though Peter felt his restlessness increasing. He wanted to be anywhere else right now but listening to Nathan talk about politics. "I've been thinking. That job offer's still good, if you want it. I mean, not volunteer co-ordinator, obviously, but I could still use you as a general manager for the staff. They like you."
"Sure, whatever," Peter said, his heartrate increasing. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Peter looked up when the screaming started; it slid through his brain like a knife. He saw, in the middle of the street, a man grabbing his head, ripping a baseball cap off, clutching at the short bristling strands of hair on his scalp.
"Sylar," he said.
"What?" Nathan asked. "Jeez, somebody put that guy out of his misery -- "
"It's Sylar," Peter said. He saw it all at once, clearly; he saw Sylar standing in traffic, even saw himself on the curb with white eyes, Nathan staring at him with fear clearly written on his face. "It's Sylar, and he's going to destroy New York."
He moved to go to him but Nathan caught him around the waist.
"You can't walk out into traffic!" he said into Peter's ear. "Peter, stop struggling!"
"I took his power," Sylar moaned, though Peter was almost certain it was in his head alone that he heard it. "I took his power and I can't control it!"
"Wait! Let me go!" Peter shouted. "I can help him! SYLAR! I CAN -- "
The rest of his scream was drowned out by a truck blowing its horn as it passed. He looked to his left, on instinct, and saw Claire there too, his own blood Claire. Daughter of my brother --
To his right, Claude was standing, a few feet away, uncertain what to do. Behind him, Hiro and Ando were emerging from the office; next to them a blonde woman had been about to enter, until she saw Nathan on the curb.
"Nathan, I can help him! He's going to blow if we don't stop him! Claude, HELP ME!"
"Let him go," Claude said.
Peter broke free from Nathan's grasp and plunged headlong into traffic, purpose clear. He saw Jack take Claire's wrist and begin to run in the opposite direction; Ando and Hiro got as far as the curb before the roaring cars stopped them. Another man -- the cop from Texas, Parkman -- was running towards Sylar too, barrelling down the median. Peter had time to register a ghostly afterimage of a badge on his chest before Sylar screamed, not just rage but pain and fear, too. Like an animal, tormented by something it didn't understand.
Parkman was too far away, and everyone was too close; no chance of surviving the blast.
There was a moment when time stopped, and he knew it was Hiro's doing; without that he would have run right in front of an oncoming minivan which would have flattened him, but as it was he whipped past it without slowing his pace.
He had no idea what he was going to do until he did it. Even as he approached he saw that Hiro's time-freeze hadn't affected Sylar in the slightest. There was fire in the other man's eyes and the white-red glow of his hands was almost blinding.
Most of Peter's mind panicked, even as some part breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't his fault.
But it would be, if he didn't do something now. If you have the power to end something and you don't, you become part of the problem.
Peter threw himself into Sylar with all his weight, skidding them off-balance and wrapping both arms around the screaming man. His clothes burned on contact and the reek of singed flesh filled the air. Sylar didn't even seem to need to stop for breath. He just screamed and screamed.
Time sped back up and a car roared past.
Peter thought of safety, of a wide expanse of emptiness where they could disappear to, of the way he'd always thought the desert looked. Above Sylar's screams he heard a kind of dominant silence, a missing top note, but before he could discover what was wrong, it happened.
He had been shown a film once, in high-school history class, about how nobody could know what it was like to be at the epicenter of an atomic blast. All he remembered from it was that you went blind just by looking at it.
As the blast passed through skin, muscle, organ, and bone, Peter felt Sylar's body shuddering in his arms. Their foreheads were pressed together, breath mingling, when the screaming finally stopped.
Fire danced between them and then Peter was part of the fire too, his body intertwined with the body of Gabriel Grey. One body, one life, one column of fire all there was -- the powerful manifestation of such a small part of the universe, just an atom, showing its force. For a moment he felt his body coming apart at the place where each cell joined the next, and in the glorious explosion he danced as part of the world, indistinguishable and inextricable.
***
MOHINDER SURESH - NYC
He sleeps.
Or does he? Does he dream?
Is it sleep if you never wake, or is it only breathing death? Is it death if the heart still beats?
And does he dream?
Shanti is there with him in his half-life, still a child of five, not a sister except in blood. But Shanti loves her brother and wants to help him; she touches his forehead -- the centre, the seat of the third eye, pineal gland, trepannage site. Then, as he watches, she touches his left eye, the lid protectively flicking down at the last minute. Her chubby child finger on his eyelid is cool and soft, lingering only for a moment.
When she takes her hand away, pain spikes through his brain, and he screams.
Mr. Smith woke screaming, his heart monitor going haywire as his pulse spiked, EEG rattling unsettlingly as he jerked from a comatose state into waking.
His eyes rolled wildly as he tried to sort out where he was and how he'd come to be there, and when the nurse tried to stop him from moving he grasped her hand on his chest and stammered in fear. The syllables made no sense to her and she wondered if he'd suffered neurological damage, but then she realised he thought he was making sense -- he was speaking in another language, and expecting her to answer.
"Sir," she said, "I don't understand. Do you speak any English?"
He stiffened in shock, but his next words were in English, in what the nurse considered a swoonworthy accent.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"You're at Grace Hospital in New York," she said. "Please, sir, try to relax."
"What am I doing in New York?" he demanded. "Is my father here?"
"You haven't had any visitors, Mr. Smith."
"Smith! My name is Suresh! Mohinder Suresh!"
"If you don't calm down we'll have to sedate you, Mr. Smith."
"No, honestly," he insisted. "My name is Suresh."
"I'm sure we can straighten that out soon, sir. Do you remember what happened to you?"
"No..." he trailed off, leaning back on the hospital pillow. "I don't even know how I got to New York."
"A little amnesia isn't unusual," she said, trying to reassure him. "Do you know the date?"
"It's..." his brow furrowed. "August. Isn't it? Have I been unconscious long?"
"No, only a few days," she said. "But it's November now."
"I see," he said, frowning. "May I ask another question?"
"I'll try to help you if I can, sir."
"Can you tell me why I can't see anything?"
***
JACK BAKER AND CLAIRE BENNET - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
"Jack, stop!" Claire called, pulled along behind him as he bolted away. "It won't matter!" she added. "If the explosion goes -- "
Jack didn't respond; instead he tugged her around by the arm and pushed her into a stairwell.
"Bomb shelter," he said, yanking open the door at the bottom and bolting through. Inside the basement was another door, round and thick like a bank vault. Jack pulled it shut behind them.
"We'll be safe here," he said in the darkness, catching his breath.
"But if -- "
"Don't think about it," he replied fiercely. "We'll hear it if it happens -- until then, try not to think."
"Jack, I'm scared."
"Me too."
"Where are you?"
"Stay still," he said. "I'll find you."
She giggled hysterically -- of course he would find her, that was what Jack did -- and after a second she felt his hand in hers. She turned slightly, wanting to face him, and felt his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. She pressed her face against his shoulder, trying not to think.
"It'll be fine," he said. "Couple of hours from now we'll laugh about this."
"You don't know that."
"It's pretty funny."
"What if Peter -- "
"I didn't come here from Ojai to get blown up," Jack said. "And I don't think all the crazy shit going down in this city was meant to end this way."
"But the paintings..."
"Shh." Jack's hands touched her face -- weird, kind of scary, especially in the dark. She raised her chin and felt his lips touch hers.
"Don't think," he said, and she tried not to, because it was so overwhelming. Fear and worry, adrenaline, rising grief --
Jack walked her backwards and she went trustingly, knowing he could find his way in the dark. She felt a cool, dry wall against her back even as Jack deepened the kiss.
It was sort of working, really -- the only thought in her mind was that she was french-kissing a cute boy in a bomb shelter, waiting for the world to end.
He pulled back slightly, breathing hard.
"Sorry," he said. "I lied about that whole not-being-a-date thing, I guess."
"It's okay," she replied. "I -- "
She felt his body tense and broke off suddenly.
"What is it?" she asked, her hands still resting on his shoulders.
"Vision," he rasped. "Jesus -- I can see -- hold still."
"What do you see?"
"Peter."
Claire held as still as possible. She hardly breathed. She wished she could at least see his face.
"He's not here," Jack said finally. "Not in New York. Hot -- the sky is burning where he is. But..."
Claire tightened her grip.
"We're safe," Jack said. "And he's alive, somewhere. Come on."
They emerged, blinking, into the glary sunlight outside and climbed the stairs together. At the top, Jack lifted his head and listened to some instinct only he could sense.
"Let's find your dad," he said. "He might know what happened."
***
NATHAN, CLAUDE, JACK, AND CLAIRE - PETRELLI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
Nathan was still standing, staring disbelievingly at the empty spot where his brother had been, when someone grabbed him roughly and shook him.
"Snap out of it," said a voice, and Nathan looked around to see the invisible man from his car, days ago, holding tightly to his arm. "Come on."
"What -- " Nathan pointed to where Peter had been.
"He's your brother, he's taken Sylar away, and we need to find him. Get inside," the man urged. Claude, that was his name.
"What's inside?" Nathan asked stupidly, as he was dragged back into his own campaign headquarters.
"Television," Claude replied grimly. "The internet. The fastest way to find out where a nuclear explosion has gone off."
"A nuclear -- oh, Jesus," Nathan said. "Peter."
"Wasn't him. He's been empathising all these weeks, the little idiot," Claude said, picking up a remote control and twiddling the buttons madly.
"But he -- the other man -- "
"Here, you do this," Claude said, throwing the remote at him and running to one of the computers. Nathan flicked through the channels to CNN, watching Claude type madly.
"He took Sylar somewhere. Hopefully somewhere safe," Claude said as he worked. "He may be dead. They may both be dead. They may both be alive."
"Nobody is going to survive that kind of -- "
"Nobody can bloody well fly, either. Shut your mouth and keep looking."
Nathan tried MSNBC. He even, out of desperation, tried FOX news, where people were already saying he was going to make an awful congressman.
A door slammed somewhere in the building and Nathan turned.
"Dad," Claire said, running forward. Jack was behind her, and Nathan was officially going to kill Jack. He caught her in his arms and let her bury her face in his shirt.
"Claire, what the hell are you doing out -- "
"Sorry, it's my fault," Jack said, coming forward also. "I snuck her out. I was just gonna buy her a Superman shirt..."
"And then New York nearly blew up," Nathan snarled. "That tell you how wise a decision that was?"
"AHA!" Claude shouted, and all three of them turned to look at him. "Got it."
"What?" Nathan asked, releasing Claire so that he could get a better look.
"Good boy. Good boy," Claude said approvingly.
"What am I looking at?" Nathan asked.
"The United States, ya twat."
"I know that."
"National Weather Service," Claude continued. "Satellite imaging updated every ten minutes. There we are..." He pointed to an odd, lumpy-looking shape in the southwest. "That's an atomic blast, that is."
Nathan swallowed. "But you don't know...if Peter's alive."
"I do," Jack said. Nathan turned to glare at him. "What? I do. When we were uh..."
"...hiding," Claire said. "Jack had a vision. He said Peter's safe. Somewhere the sky is burning."
"Right," Claude said. "For a given value of safe. I'll fetch him."
Nathan grabbed his arm. "I'm coming with you."
"Doesn't work that way. I'm taking the fast route," Claude said. "Can't drag you along and drag you and Peter back with me."
"I've clocked my airspeed," Nathan retorted. "I can be there in minutes."
Claude looked speculatively from Nathan to Claire, which Nathan did not think was a good sign.
"You," he said to Jack. "Mind the shop. And you, Petrelli, grab a map and fly your arse to Socorro."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm taking the indestructible one with me," Claude replied. "Fancy a trip, Claire?"
"It's okay," Claire told him, when he tried to shove Claude back. "He's a friend of my father's."
Claude wrapped his arms around Nathan's daughter from behind and both of them disappeared. There was a faint pop as air rushed in to fill the space they'd been.
"I'm not done with you," Nathan said to Jack, then ran for the stairs. If he was going to take off flying in the middle of New York City, at least he could do it from the rooftop.
***
Next time, on Heroes ("The Long Walk"):
"A blast of this size, while causing damage only to the extent of three or four miles, would fill an area comparable to metropolitan New York with toxic radiation."
He heard the man hesitate, then speak once more. "Simon Porter."
"I do wish you'd at least talk to me. I know you're listening. You can stay invisible if you wish."
"So it's you," Claude said cryptically. "Well, isn't it a small world."
"I'm a bit of a scientist, me." "I'm a geneticist. What's your branch?" "Esoterica."
Even Peter's great teacher Claude, Nathan noticed, couldn't keep the uncertainty out of his voice.
It had been way more than nice. It had been hot, and there had been tongues involved, and not just his tongue either.
Chapter Seventeen
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Wel, at least Peter's alive, but...
GAH! *flails*
I just know I'll be checking obsessively until the next update...
*adores you so*
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Guess Peter took from Hiro after all, eh?
The ghost of Matt's badge was a really nice touch.
Nathan, you are the best daddy/brother/politician ever.
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Argh, why is it not tomorrow morning yet?!?
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Poor Mohinder. Poor Sylar; that was an excellent twist with him thinking he'd killed Isaac, and you are awesome for making even him a somewhat sympathetic character. And god, I love the Petrelli's so much, with Peter secretly empathising all these weeks, that boy. And Hiro remains awesome, even if he only got a line in this part.
The line about tongues in the teaser for next part cracked me up.
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The explosion and the...Jack and Claire and the FLYING CLAUDE and the Sylar exploding and th Peter flying away and the "United States, ya twat" and OH MY GOD I LOVE CLAUDE FOR THAT LINE and OH MY GOD THAT WAS F-ING AWESOME!!!!!!!
Okay. *breathes* I'm fine.
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Nathan tried MSNBC. He even, out of desperation, tried FOX news, where people were already saying he was going to make an awful congressman.
Hee.
-blue
(Okay, some of my bizarre theories: Nathan will be spotted taking off, Peter and Sylar will combine somehow, and HRG will catch up to Jack in Nathan's headquarters.)
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Anywho, this is probably the best chapter so far, and it needs to be tomorrow like now. *tries to speed time up*
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I think.
Well, probably.
Didn't expect the teleport. Didn't expect a lot of things (blindness and amnesia, oh noes), but hey! I love a good surprise! And...oh, Sylar. You've made him a much more tragic character than the writers will, I think. And Jack and Claire! So cute! And worried!confused!Nathan! And, gosh darnit, I am so very extremely grateful that the next chapter will come tomorrow. Because this is (and the pun was only half-intended) on fire.
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If Sylar's alive, maybe that will teach him not to go poking around in brains that don't belong to him.
Also, good for Jack, finding a bomb shelter. (And then kissing. I am reminded of a scene from... season three or four, I think, of Buffy, when the world is about to end and the only thing they can do is hurry up and wait and Oz starts more-than-kissing Willow and she asks him, "Um, what are you doing?" in that I'm not objecting, just confused tone and his response is simply, "Panicking.")
It's fascinating, more so than a soap opera or comic book, because the threads of story are now winding around each other. A web turning into a rope. Or a wick.
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If Sylar's alive, maybe that will teach him not to go poking around in brains that don't belong to him.
*cracks up laughing*
Jack does smack of Oz, doesn't he? I probably took the bomb shelter inspiration from Buffy, to be honest.
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Yes, it was good, but Bennet/Claire was sad.
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Funny, I like Bennet a lot more than I like Claire -- at least, the way you write them.
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Nathan and Claude yelling
Sylar and Peter exploding
Brain melting!!
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(Anonymous) 2007-04-16 03:44 am (UTC)(link)no subject